


A Court of Thorns and Starlight

by teaseawrites



Series: A Series of Birth and Beginnings [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Mates, Mating Bond, The Night Court, The Spring Court (ACoTaR), Velaris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaseawrites/pseuds/teaseawrites
Summary: Young, mischievous and inevitably lovesick Illian, son of Feyre and Rhysand, finds himself instantly captivated by Aurelia, eldest daughter of the High Lord of Spring, when he meets her on Calanmai. But when the mating bond snaps into place and the vendetta between the Night Court and the Spring Court is tested, will peace be achieved at last—or will their union end in more bloodshed?Inspired by Romeo and Juliet and told through the perspectives of Feysand and Tamlin's children.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s), Tamlin Child/Feysand Child
Series: A Series of Birth and Beginnings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846618
Comments: 48
Kudos: 163





	1. Illian

**Author's Note:**

> Some things may make more sense if you read my Tamlin redemption fic, A Court of Shame and Virtue, first. It's not essential, but in this fic, Tamlin has become a better person—although not everyone knows this or acknowledges it.

“Illian, please come back here—”

Despite my mother’s pleas, the door slams shut behind me.

I mutter under my breath as I storm from the townhouse, fastening my cloak around my shoulders as I go. Another argument, another row, night after night after night. The image of disappointment on my mother’s face weighs my shoulders down, but I force it from my mind before I let the feeling of dread settle in my chest. It's not like I mean to wind up in trouble... it's just that trouble usually seems to find _me._ My father, it seems, does not understand.

 _High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court..._ more like High Lord of _Assholes._

 _Oh, come now,_ I hear my father quip inside my head. _You can think of something better than that._

Growling, I shove him out, my mental barriers slamming up just as hard as the door as I had swung shut moments before. Claws of imaginary adamantium against a cavern of night sky blue are all that separates my father from my head—my head, a place that he doesn’t understand and doesn’t, it seems, try to. 

I know he's worried about what sort of High Lord I'll be. He's worried I'll be like his father; a tyrant, a cruel, bloodthirsty monster. He thinks I’m irresponsible, selfish, all the horrible things under the sun—and often, I have to remind myself that he’s just worried, that it’s not me personally, that he’s not just saying those things to get a rise out of me. He cares… although lately, I’m not sure how much.

“It’s not _his_ fault you let him spend too much time with Cassian as a child,” I hear Mor chiding faintly from inside. 

I might find it funny if not for the frost gathering at my fingertips. 

I shake my head and push their conversation out of my mind. Huffing, I wrap my cloak tighter around me, the chill of my icy rage biting at my bones as I stalk further into the city. Velaris is a shining hub of hope and safety in a world that can often be so very dangerous. It’s comfortable, full of life and love and art, something which I’ve grown up admiring. But it’s also… _too_ comfortable. I want adventure, I want to be tested, I want…

To be _anywhere_ but here.

Often, I let myself drift off—drift off so that I’m far away, in a place I don’t even recognise. Sometimes, I find my head filled with thoughts of a meadow filled with daisies; the giggling of girls around me, a sound which always seems so far away; walls covered in roses, trailing ivy, pretty little things that withstand even the most violent of storms; I can see writing scrawled on pages upon pages of parchment embellished with golden flowers and rising dawns. I never understand why. It’s such a stark difference to the things I paint: the monstrosities of history that I think should never be forgotten.

It’s not as if I’ve seen any with my own eyes. But my mother has seen countless monstrosities, ones that I don't pester her about, ones that sometimes slip past her mental barriers if she's relaxed or simply isn't thinking. I see the impact of them in the way her hands shake sometimes, when somebody wears a particular colour or says a certain name—I see it in the way my father’s gaze grows distant, his hand rubbing at some invisible spot on his chest. The things I paint… they’re a common source of argument in my household, especially from my father.

Another argument. Another disagreement. Different morals, different views, a different outlook—

No matter how many times I tell him that I don't wish to inflict the things I paint on anyone, no matter how much I tell him I'd much rather be content enough with my life to simply paint flowers in bloom, his opinion never changes. _He_ never changes. All he sees on that canvas are the images that haunt him, and he never tries to look past it.

 _Somebody has to paint those things,_ I think, letting my feet decide where I’m going. I end up making my way closer and closer to the docks. _Who’s going to, if not for me?_

But it’s the sound of drums that catches my attention now, not girlish giggles or ivy-covered walls. Drums… that’s not at all like Velaris, a place of peace even in its festivities. The ruckus is enough to draw my attention, to steer my feet in the other direction. I cast out my mind to those around me as I walk, wondering, searching for what, exactly, the reason behind these festivities is, and— 

Calanmai. Fire Night.

I stop in my tracks. It’s not something my family and I celebrate. It just happens, and it happens far away. I suck in a breath, pausing, allowing the music to paint a picture in my mind. Swirls of purple, black, orange, yellow—I can see it now, countless bodies laughing and dancing as they thrash about the billowing fires all around them… 

Slowly, slowly, a smirk creeps onto my features. 

What could piss my father off more?

Before I know it, I’m gone—and so, too, are my wings. 

As the Spring Court fizzles into view, my vision is filled with the very same picture that I had imagined—only the clearing I find myself in is darker, far darker, bodies mere figures as they dance around me, laughing and singing as the drums beat loud and hard around us. I don't need to hear my father's voice in my head to know what he'd say: _You really don't think things through, do you?_

“I do,” I respond to nobody but myself, “it's just that I don't give a damn about the consequences.”

Because if the High Lord of Spring found me here, on Calanmai especially, he’d rip me to pieces. 

_Good,_ I hear a voice murmur in the back of my head, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my own. _That’s what you want._

It _is_ what I want. At least, I want him to try.

And yet as much as I hear of just how terrible this High Lord is, the people around me look harmless—happy, even, as the thrum of drums forces them to thrash about, to dance as if it’s the last night of their lives, to truly _live_ as if they’re enjoying the life they've been given. Although it’s chaos, although the heat of the fires is making me sweaty and people are bumping into me with every awed step I take, it’s… fascinating. I find beauty in the way their bodies move, blending into shapes and figures until they’re nothing more than silhouettes in the firelight. They’d be a pretty picture to paint—or not so pretty, if I think about it, with all the reds and blacks and oranges, the plumes of smoke billowing up from the bonfires dotted about the clearing. 

But then again, nothing I paint ever really _is_ pretty.

But it’s an immovable figure that catches my eye next, a silhouette of jagged edges and folded arms that radiates aloofness. She draws me to her like a creature is drawn to bait, and I make a mental note to memorise the sight of her, the gold in her hair and the reflection of the firelight in her eyes. It makes her look foreign, alien, when on any other day I’m certain she’d fit in just fine.

Or maybe… not. There’s this look in her eye—

Hardened. Cold. What sort of horrors has she seen? I _have_ to know.

A smirk curves my lips upwards as I slip between body after body, person after person, through the crowds and over in her direction. She sits alone on a tree stump, a table beside her, filled with empty wine goblets and clothes strewn aside—presumably when the people dancing near to her have gotten too hot. She sips the wine from her goblet as she observes the crowd around her, a certain amount of boredom in her eye that makes me wonder just how she can find something like _this_ anything other than wonderful. The pretty pink material of her dress doesn’t seem to fit the way she carries herself at all.

_She should be wearing black, just like me._

I approach from behind and come to a stop beside her, a still, silent figure amongst thrashing bodies and the rhythmic, somewhat teasing thunder of drums. She cocks her head towards the sound of approaching footsteps before I even come to a halt, a feat I think is impressive amidst the thunderous sounds around us. From here, I can take in the sharp angles of her long face: her high cheekbones, her long, straight nose, her slightly arched brows, her small, plump lips—

“You’re in my space,” she drawls, barely sparing me a glance. Her gaze is focused and yet so incredibly bored at the same time, her eyes flickering slowly, absent-mindedly, from body to body, silhouette to silhouette.

I raise my brows, amused. My hands slide smoothly into my pockets. “You’re rather bold for somebody so small.”

She frowns across at me, and in the dim firelight, I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You’re rather bold for assuming you have permission to _speak._ ”

I look down at her quizzically, amusement flickering over my features, and I can't help the laugh that slips from my lips in response. She raises her brows and folds her arms, a movement which sends her golden hair tumbling over a slender shoulder, and I think the soft curls are rather pretty. I wonder if it naturally falls like that or if it’s some sort of Spring court fashion.

I wouldn’t know. This is the place my parents always say to stay far, far away from. I’d feel bad about going behind my mother’s back if I deigned to think about it too much. She’d certainly be upset that I’m here; she's usually the one that has my back in arguments, even if she disagrees with me. And yet…

And yet I'm here, doing what _I_ want. As usual. There's no harm in knowing what you want and going for it—especially when what I want now is to delightfully mess with this girl. Perhaps it’s just to memorise the feel of her, the way she looked amidst the laughs of joy and thunder of feet—but I’d be lying if I said that.

Something about her is captivating, even despite the bitterness I sense deep, deep within.

“You’ll find there aren’t many who can stop me from saying what I want,” I quip, shrugging, as I look back at the crowds around us. “Or _doing_ what I want.”

Her gaze rakes over me. Narrows. And then, just when I think she’s realised how handsome I am, she looks back at the crowd, uninterested. She says nothing even as I wait for her to continue our conversation, likely deciding me too uninteresting to waste her breath.

It’s like that, then. _Delightful._

It only makes me crave more.

“You seem displeased to be here,” I comment, my tone radiating exasperation, amusement.

She bites back coldly, “I am.”

“Don’t you think it’s sort of,” I wave a hand, “entrancing?”

“Yes,” she responds, casting me a sideward glance, “which is exactly why I do _not_ wish to participate.”

I shrug, my hands finding my pockets. “Fine. Suits me.”

She turns to look at me properly now, her eyes narrowing as her arms unfold. “Suits you? Why should what _I_ do suit you?”

An amused smile lines my lips. “Perhaps because it seems to irritate you so.”

Her eyes narrow on me, and then… and then they relax, and she averts her gaze to the cave far away. A shudder racks down her body at the sight. I wonder just what waits within, and then—oh. I remember. It’s not that I’ve heard about just what goes on at Calanmai from my parents, of course not, but Uncle Cassian…

The majority of the time, he’s the one that tends to give me the answers I seek.

“You _really_ don’t like this event, do you?” I comment, amusement radiating from my jovial tone. “It seems rather strange for a member of the Spring Court not to enjoy their own festive events.”

“Well, I’m not like other Spring Court girls,” she says, folding her arms again.

“That is a _very_ Spring Court thing of you to say.”

She groans, rolls her eyes, and shoves me.

"You're insufferable,” she tells me, although her newfound teasing tone indicates that she thinks something quite different. “Which means you're either from here, or you're from somewhere else."

I frown, equally as teasing, "That sentence made very little sense, I'll have you know."

"No, it didn't. I know what I mean. Most people around me..." She waves a hand, and suddenly, that joking side of her is gone—replaced with tiredness, exasperation. "Irritating."

“And me?”

Another glance to the side in my direction. “I haven’t yet decided.”

My brows rise. "Has anyone told you you're rather charming?"

"No, but I bet they tell you all the time," she responds mockingly, looking up at me with a sarcastic flutter of her lashes.

I can’t stop the grin that slips onto my features as I stare down at her, my blue-gray eyes radiating amusement, awe, wonder. Who _is_ this woman? I suddenly feel the desire to get to know her, to unravel myself in her mind, to bathe myself in her scent, to snarl as I— 

_Stop it. What’s wrong with you? You’re never like this. With anyone._

“You never told me your name,” I say, my tone quieter than before. Calm down. Calm _down._ And yet my heart beat is quickening.

“You never told me yours.”

Quietly, again: “Perhaps we should change that.”

“Mm…” Her head tilts. “Perhaps not.”

I raise my brows. My heart thunders in my chest, matching the beat of the drums? “There are many who would say you’re foolish for denying that offer.”

Matter-of-factly, she quips, “That’s exactly the reason I’m denying it.”

I look away, blinking, momentarily stunned by this woman’s bluntness—even more so as she slams her now-empty goblet down on the table beside her. I hadn’t thought Spring Court girls could be so… _mean._ Delightfully mean, of course, but this one… she awes me and overwhelms me at the same time. It’s like I can’t think, like I can’t place exactly _what_ I want to know about her, and yet… 

And yet I know I most certainly do not want to leave her side.

Something tells me she’s the most fun I’ll find tonight.

“Illian,” I tell her regardless, my tone softer. “My name… it’s Illian.”

_Don’t make me look stupid don’t make me look stupid don’t make me look stupid—_

She hesitates a moment, glances over me again, and then I swear something softens in her eyes because she responds, “Aurelia.”

The upwards curve of my lips, this time, is soft. “It’s a pleasure.”

She responds, “So, what are you—”

“Aurelia!” A voice calls, laughing. 

When I look over, I find another golden-haired beauty, with the same soft curls and similar features—except her face is rounder, less sharp than Aurelia’s. I wonder how they’re related. “Come! The Rite’s almost over!”

She pauses, tensing, and then… a sigh slips from her lips as she removes herself from the tree stump she’d been perched on just seconds before. She mutters something under her breath, something I can’t quite catch, and then she looks over at me somewhat awkwardly.

“Well…” She glances over me, takes a breath, “it was… _nice…_ meeting you.”

I frown, glancing across to the girl a few metres away, laughing, waiting. “You’re leaving?”

Something in me breaks at the thought. What’s wrong with me? We’ve only just met; she’s only been _horrible_ to me, although I _have_ enjoyed it greatly— 

It’s her turn to frown, confusion lining her brows. “It’s tradition for the High Lord’s heirs to—”

I don’t hear the rest. 

Aurelia. 

Aurelia Oldthorne—High Lord Tamlin’s eldest daughter. Of course. 

The revelation shocks me so much that I can’t keep them in—can’t take the effort of hiding my wings any longer. Black, membranous things, full of strength despite my youth—my father’s wings—break free from the shackles of magic I’ve contained them in, unfurling to reveal their full width, their power. They cast a shadow behind me, force a gasp from Aurelia Oldthorne’s lips, and all of a sudden she’s stumbling away, fear in her eyes, and all I want to do is—

It snaps.

I don’t know what it is at first; I just know that something is broken and fixed all at the same time, something is wrong and right all at once, something pulls me towards her like a moth to a flame— 

I take a step forward, stumbling, clumsy. I reach out a hand, willing her closer, wanting— 

She takes a step back. Her fingers clutch at some space in her chest, the place where a well of emotions has opened up in my own—

"Your wings,” she utters, paling, dread clear on her features. “You're—"

“Aurelia,” I beg; beg, without not really knowing what I’m begging for. “Please—”

"No," she whispers.

And then she’s vanishing, gone before I get the chance to think over what just happened—she’s gone as those primal instincts take over, wanting to feel her, touch her, wrap my arms around her and never let go— 

All I can do is grasp at thin air, at the space she was standing at before, and as the thunder of drums around me suddenly cuts off and the ground shudders beneath me, I wish it would collapse and swallow me up, too.

I clutch at my chest—my chest, that spot my father seems so inclined to rub sometimes, rub as if something had snapped there once, too: something irreplaceable, irreversible. And then I understand, truly understand, truly empathise, because I know one thing for certain:

My mate.

Aurelia Oldthorne is my mate.

Aurelia Oldthorne, daughter of the male my father hates the most, the male that had caused my mother so much pain, so much trauma… 

Is my mate.


	2. Aurelia

I wake to the sound of crying.

Sighing, I push the covers of my bed away from me as I climb out of its comfortable embrace, my feet hitting the plush rug under the four-poster bed in which I sleep. It’s not unusual to wake to such a sound in this household, not these days—although it’s not for the reasons that so many outside of this court might think. Because while my sister and my parents lie fast asleep, it’s my infant brother’s cries that ring through the floor of the palace which houses our bedrooms—my infant brother, who seems set in his intentions to wake us up at the earliest time every morning.

They’re not screams of torture, or wails of despair, or screams of misery. Although from what I’ve heard of those outside of this court, that’s what everybody seems to think happens here.

I make my way barefoot down the hallway and over to my brother’s rooms, attached to which is his nursery and a small privy. He has nannies, of course—but as his sister, as the eldest, as the one who’s always taken the brunt of her father’s reputation and has always been the one dead-set on protecting the younger ones from putting up with the very same, it’s habit to take care of them when the time comes for it.

And anyway… dealing with little Thelin, with his sweet little brown eyes—my mother’s—and his strong little fists, is never a displeasing thing. No matter how early it is in the morning.

His cries only get louder as the door to his nursery swings open; I shut it as soon as possible. After Calanmai, after Fire Night, my parents won’t be up for a while. I don’t like to think about the technicalities of it.

“Thelin, Thelin,” I coo softly, reassuringly, as I reach into his cot and lift him into my arms, “have you been left alone too long, sweet little one?”

His head rests against my shoulder, sleepy-eyed and drowsy, as my hand finds his back. I rub the space between his little white wings soothingly—inherited from my mother—and in no time, his cries are quietening until they’re naught but little sniffles and whines. Truthfully, although I mostly wrinkle my nose at the sight of babies—they  _ do  _ smell, and they’re awfully demanding—this one’s redeemable quality lies in the fact that he’s able to give simply wonderful cuddles.

I move to the window which overlooks the sea, my brother still blissfully sleepy in my arms. The light of the dawn will soon cast a heavenly glow over the bedroom, but with the castle facing west, it’ll be a while until the darkness of this room truly vanishes. This place is a new palace to many who were born before my birth, but to me, it’s home.

Once, it had been the Oldthorne family’s summer home: although summer in the Spring Court doesn’t get all too hot, there’s still a slight difference in the temperature. Now, however, it has long since been the new home of the Spring Court, a palace sat atop rocks which overlook a small beach. Father moved here after the trouble with the High Lady Feyre; I’ve been to Rosehall manor only a few times before, and that was with mother.

It’s a school now. A place of learning, of education, of growth. It had been mother’s idea, since my father couldn’t bare to go back there.

Mother, my father’s mate—the very reason the Spring Court thrives.

“Mistress!” One of the nannies gasps, interrupting my train of thought. Her voice is hushed in the early hours of the morning. I spin to face her, remembering her name: Melas, a plump woman whose age I can’t recall. “Forgive me—I was preparing the little one’s meal while the Lady sleeps—“

I flash her a smile. “It’s no bother, Melas. He’s my brother, after all.”

Tentatively, Melas nods. “Still, it is my duty. I can take him now, if it suits you.”

I look back at Thelin, brushing a finger over his soft, plump cheeks, his nose. How could something so sweet, so small, ever be destined to become High Lord? Indeed, the baby has made himself quite comfortable against my shoulder, his eyes half closed as his fingers splay out against the fabric of my nightgown. Truthfully, I don’t want to put him down.

“Are you sure that’s necessary? He seems rather content in my arms.”

Something flashes in Melas’ eye—wariness, perhaps. Nerves. Concern? I don’t care enough to ask. “It is my duty,” she repeats. 

Ah—I know what that look in her eye is. My father’s reputation. There are still some who fear that: they fear the man he had been all those years ago, before I was even born. My father has a temper, yes, but to me, all he has ever been is loving—loving, a little bit protective, and sorry, so guilty, about what the things he has done means for his children.

He has reason to be guilty. Life as Tamlin’s daughter has not been easy.

I want to protect this little one from ever going through what I have, and yet still, part of me knows that’s impossible.

“Let me hold him a little longer, if that’s alright,” I ask quietly.

The nurse nods slowly, but it’s in a way that I can tell she’s dissatisfied. “I’ll leave his bottle with you. It’s still warm.”

“Thank you.”

“Mistress.”

The door clicks shut behind her. In no time, Thelin is nestled into my arms just as I nestle into the nursing chair my mother so often uses to feed him. And as my brother feasts away, content in my arms, arms he likely doesn’t even realise are different to my mother’s…

My thoughts are drawn back to  _ him. _

Illian. What a ridiculous name. 

He  _ cannot  _ be my mate. Not him. Not with such a mischievous light in his eyes, with that stupid floppy black hair that falls in his face, with that shit-eating grin that makes me want to punch him in nose… 

I refuse it. And if he tells anyone, if he speaks a  _ word  _ of it, I’ll do far more than punch him.

My father’s reputation—and therefore mine—might have substance once I’m done with him.

“Aurelia?” 

I blink, looking up at the doorway. There stands my mother, bright and beautiful, lighting up the room with the glow she can’t even stop herself from emitting. Her slender white wings are folded behind her back as she blinks sleep from her eyes, the white of her nightgown making her look heavenly, ethereal, as she casts a warm glow about the room, one that makes the soft golden curls of her hair look red.

“Morning, mama,” I greet her with a smile. We’ve always gotten along—in fact, it’s hard not to get along with a woman so heavenly, so bright, so full of love—and truthfully, she’s my best friend as much as my sister. Aurora Oldthorne, previously Morningsworn, daughter of the Dawn Court… and friend to all.

The people here call her Light Bringer. She pretends not to listen, but I know she’s heard it. Bringer of hope.

Who had faith in my father when all others had given up on him?

She did.

My mother mimics my smile, warmth radiating from her as she crosses the room. “Is everything alright?”

I nod. “He’s fine. I heard him crying and came to see. I didn’t want him to wake you.”

Her smile softens, a feat I hadn’t thought possible. Aurora looks down at my brother; brushes a tuft of golden curls back from his head. “How kind. Thank you, sweetheart.”

I nod, both of our gazes on Thelin now, and silence lingers between us for a while before my mother speaks once more.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” she says softly, no hint of unkindness in her tone. “Coming in to see him.”

I look up at her. “Is it a problem?”

“No, sweetheart, of course not, but—“

“I like to make sure he’s safe.”

My mother’s smile flickers. She reaches out to gently squeeze a shoulder. “And you? Who takes care of you, when you’re looking out for your siblings?”

I shrug. “Father does a good job of it. And you.”

Mother sighs. “Just take some time for yourself once in a while, Aurelia. I hate to see you so… tense.”

My brother spits the teat of his bottle out of his mouth, likely having had enough, and I pull the bottle away from him gently before setting it on the table beside me. I stand, passing him to my mother without her having to ask. She knows I only like the feeding part, not the burping part. My brother’s whimpers as he settles into my mother’s embrace, and she begins to pat his back lightly with the palm of her hand.

“With all due respect, mother,” I murmur, with as much kindness I can muster, “taking some time for myself won’t ease my tension.”

Not when I’ve had to work ten times harder for anything in this world because of an age-old stain on my father’s reputation. Not when the bitterness inside of me lingers even now because of it.

My mother lets out a breath of exasperation as she presses a kiss to Thelin’s head. “Get some more rest, my dear,” she says kindly, “before it’s time to awaken for good.”

I nod, bid her farewell, and I return back to my rooms without much thought on it. At least while I’m asleep I can get a semblance of peace. It’s rare that I dream, and when I do, it’s not often that I have nightmares: usually, it’s just blackness—cool, refreshing blackness. A rest from the pressures of my daily life.

I let out a murmur of content as I sink back into the warmth of my bed, plush silken green covers embroidered with gold leaves swathing me in comfort. My room is large and follows the same sort of theme: white marble walls, only they’re painted with green and gold by hand, each one intricate and as detailed as the last. The furniture in my room is made of dark wood, the type that looks cold in the morning light and warm and inviting in the afternoon sun.

I love this room. With windows facing the forest and a balcony facing the sea, it’s perfect: with the crash of the waves against the shore and the rustle of the leaves in the wind, it’s easy for me to fall into a deep sleep again.

Almost, because— 

_ Clink. _

I pull the covers over my head, trying to drown out the noise. Irritating.

_ Clink. _

I peek over the covers, irritation wafting from me as I glance about the room. What  _ is  _ that?

_ Clink. _

Hissing in anger, I throw my covers back and stand, watching, waiting, ready to see just where the noise is coming from, and—

_ Clink. _ A pebble thrown at the double doors of my balcony.

My blood boils. Whoever is doing that, whoever is testing me, they’re going to regret it. I storm to the balcony, throw open the doors, but— 

Nothing.

I growl, “Whoever it is that’s doing that, I’ll have you skinned alive if you don’t—”

“Damn. Your mood only gets worse in the mornings, huh?”

I spin to find Illian leaning against the space where the door opens to hide his form. He leans with his hands in his pockets and that cocky look on his bronzed, handsome features, nothing cold or callous about him—unlike me. He looks faintly amused as he regards me, although there’s something in his gaze, something different to last night when we had first met. It’s… softer, somehow. No—he’s wary. I can’t explain it, can’t place it, but although he looks at me like I’m nothing more than a temperamental hound, he’s reserved.

I don’t have time for him, no matter what he’s holding back. 

“Get,” I growl, pacing towards him with my fists clenched, “out.”

His brows. “Out? I’m not inside. I’m already  _ outside.  _ Would you like me to come in so that I can  _ go  _ outside?”

Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three.

I smile—mockingly innocent, rage lingering under the piercing green of my eyes.

“Get out of the  _ Spring Court _ before I—”

“Set your father on me?” He interrupts, folding his arms. “I’d like to see that. I’d  _ love  _ to see that, actually. Come on—let me get a taste of what my father seems to hate so much.”

I spit back, my voice full of venom, “Your family has done enough, thank you.”

His brows rise, irritation lining them. “ _ My _ family?” He removes himself from the wall then, inching closer, and I do not back down. “What about yours, hm? What about your father—”

“Don’t you  _ dare, _ ” I snarl, “talk about my father. Your mother broke my father's heart—your father played games with him when he was already _ broken _ —”

His gaze darkens. "Don't you talk about my mother."

"Why?” I laugh, taking a step backwards as I throw my hands in the air. “Everyone else seems to talk about her. She's all they talk about. Feyre, oh, High Lady Feyre, Feyre with a title that doesn't even make  _ sense—" _

"Stop it!"

"Your mother is the  _ reason  _ I've had to work ten times harder for  _ everything  _ in my life, Illian, so don't you dare tell me to stop it or I—or I'll—"

"Or you'll what, Aurelia?" He growls, stepping closer again. "Or what?"

My jaw clenches, defiant even despite my silence. He takes another step—another step, even as darkness curls at his fists and forces plumes of smoke in replacement of wings at his back. I swallow, my gaze drawn to that darkness—that darkness that could swallow me whole, that darkness that lingers within him— 

“I came here to discuss what happened last night with you,” he says quietly, menacingly, “because I think it’s something we should talk about.”

I tilt my head upwards. “Nothing happened last night. There’s _nothing_ to talk about.”

His nostrils flare; those plumes of smoke do, too. “You really want to play it this way?”

I laugh, and the grin that slips onto my lips is brutal—delightfully so. “What are you going to do, Illian,” I purr, batting my lashes at him, “steal me away?”

Rage—undeniable rage seethes in those cold blue eyes, and then— 

“If your father hadn’t denied my mother the care she required, the  _ freedom  _ she required,” he bites back, “then my father wouldn’t have had to take her away.”

“Is that what he tells himself at night to help him sleep better?”

Illian hisses in anger, a nonverbal response that has my lips curving upwards again.

“Get out, Illian,” I insist, turning my back on him. I spin once I’m inside, my fingers finding the balcony doors, and just before I swing them shut and lock them, I continue: “and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back.”

I hold his gaze, piercing and brutal, and then I watch him leave until he vanishes into nothingness. I wait to know that he’s gone, check the corners of my room and the inside of my wardrobe, and only then do I crawl back into bed.

_ My father has long since redeemed himself, _ I think, sinking back into the plush comfort of the soft duvet around me.  _ He doesn’t need to prove it to anyone but those he cares for—and neither do I.  _

_ Especially not a mate I have no interest in—no care in the world for. _

The darkness that awaits when sleep finally comes is the kind that is welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Aurelia's POV! She reminds me a little of a mix between Feyre and Nesta. Let me know what you think!


	3. Illian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry this update took so long - I promise I am working on the chapters slowly! Hope you enjoy it!

"Illian, will you stop moping?"

I glower at my best friend, my thoughts far away with no intention of returning to the present. My conversation with my father this morning has proven more than annoying, more than distressing, and something in me tells me that he just _knows—_ knows about me and Aurelia, about the mating bond.

But how?

 _Your mental shields are strong this morning,_ father had commented, and I'd been out of the townhouse as fast as I could. Things with the High Lord of the Night Court are already tough most of the time; the last thing I need is him knowing that I'm the mate of his mortal enemy's daughter. What would he do then? Kick me out? Trap me in the town house for eternity? 

Actually, the picture of his frustration almost makes me _want_ to tell him; makes me want to see him enraged. And yet I know there is a part of him that will understand my plight regardless, a part of him that will attempt to help me through the pain of knowing that I have a mate and that the other party wants nothing to do with it. He understands that part, at least, or at least I think so from what I've heard of my mother and father's early years—the years in which they barely knew one another. And for that very reason, I don't want to raise it with him at all.

And so Hunt, as he stares at me with his orange hair aflame and his face dotted with freckles, is the only person I've told.

One parent from Autumn, one from Night—it had been easy enough for them to move to Velaris in search of shelter after the wars. We've been best friends since we were children, and although our interests grew apart as we, too, grew, our friendship didn't suffer through it. Hunt is part of the family now, and truthfully, I wonder sometimes if my parents prefer him over me. He's certainly easier to deal with—far more charming, too, although he tends to eat everything in sight when he visits.

Not telling anyone about Aurelia, about the bond we share, would probably have been the wisest thing for me to do. But Hunt is the person I tell everything to—the person I've been friends with for the longest time. Keeping something like this from him...

Well, it's harder than keeping it from my father, certainly.

I glower at him. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Or what?" He snorts, leaning back against the rocks we lay upon. The rocks that line where the sea meets the shore, the area behind us lined with trees, has long since been our hangout space. Vaguely dangerous and exceptionally cool, we spend most of our time here. "You'll set your dad on me?"

I roll my eyes, picking up a pebble to throw it into the water, and I watch as it skips along the surface before sinking deep, deep, deep. "My dad will be the least of your problems if you keep this up."

He nudges me with his foot. "It seems more to me that he's the least of _yours_."

My gaze darkens. I know what he means. Hunt, beside me, sits up with a grin.

"I knew it," he snickers. "You're _lusting_ after her again, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Hunt."

"Oh, come _on,_ " he says, rolling his eyes. "How mean can she be?"

"Mean," I respond simply.

"So we figure out what she likes," he shrugs. "We win her over. I mean— _you_ win her over. I'll just be an innocent bystander. Does she by any chance have a sister?"

I let out a sigh, choosing not to mention her sister Ellaria. I have bigger things to worry about—and besides, she seems to be the sweeter one of the two sisters, at least if what Aunt Elain told me is true. Apparently, she and Aurelia's mother, Aurora, are friends—so close, in fact, that Aurora decided to name Elain Ellaria's godmother.

Aunt Elain had kept _that_ one quiet, certainly.

"Hunt, she detests me," I groan at him. "I don't think this is a game."

"Isn't it?" His brows rise. "I thought wooing women was very much a game, actually."

I frown at him. "You're a sleaze."

He shrugs, a smirk lining his lips. "You wish you were me. And yet even despite that, instead of coming drinking with me, you _insist_ on staying inside to paint the horrors of the world." He makes a gesture around the last half of his sentence, one that indicates that he doesn't at all believe in my cause.

I roll my eyes, averting my gaze to the water. "There's something about a quiet room and a roaring fireplace. I've told you countless times."

"We are _not_ getting into your introverted tendencies right now. Listen—do you even _like_ her?"

I shrug, averting my gaze. "She hasn't given me the chance to."

"And yet you still want her."

I glower at him. "Yes, Hunt, I still want her."

Hunt lets out a breath. "I guess I'll help you regardless, then. Your wish is my command, O' Noble High Lord."

I roll my eyes, leaning back against the rocks. "Don't call me that."

"Mm. I forgot you don't want it," he shrugs, fiddling with some stray pebbles on the ground. " _Have_ you told your dad you don't want the title yet?"

"No," I growl, irritated, and then—I winnow.

I winnow right into the heart of the Spring Court. Into Sperover.

Sperover is a bustling town, but regardless, it's one that feels less crowded than Velaris—less overwhelming. Velaris' buildings are closer together, nestled into the mountains in a way that seems somewhat suffocating, but Sperover has room to use. Gaps between buildings made of pale stone and wooden reinforcements make little alleyways around each corner, and to the west, the sea glistens in the mild Spring temperature. On a hilltop overlooking the water, a pretty High Priestess temple stands tall and proud in the distance—likely just as proud as the Priestess that lives within it.

I remember hearing about this place. Hearing about when and why it was built. A new place to live, a place untouched by Amarantha… just like Tamlin's new palace is. And this village had been crucial in Tamlin's efforts to rebuild his court. **** ~~~~

I only realise when Hunt winnows beside me, grinning, that this might have been his plan all along—to rile me up enough to get me to come here. And by the look on his face, I'm absolutely right. The shove I give him when he laughs at me is warranted.

Hunt merely laughs. "Maybe Aurelia will steal you away as a groom of Spring!"

I hiss at him in annoyance, heat coating my cheeks at the sight of people beginning to stare. "Shut it, you ass."

He grins, rolling his eyes, and then he grabs my forearm. "Come on," he says, gesturing to some far off spot in the distance. "I want to explore."

With a sigh, I nod to some far-off spot in the distance, and thankfully Hunt releases me from his relentless hold. I slip my hands in my pockets and follow him when he starts walking, listening silently as he begins rambling. There's no use arguing with Hunt when he's in a mood like this, and truthfully, he's in a mood like this one _most_ of the time. But he is my best friend, the one person I trust wholly, and because of that I let him guide him through town as if he knows where he's going when I _know_ that he certainly does not. 

"Apparently there's this tavern in Sperover called the Twisted Rose," he grins at me. "It's got this _insane_ room with mirrors all around, ones that show you your body in all different shapes, and I want to—"

 _Crash._ I smush into a body I wasn't even aware was in front of me; a body that, when I look down, is too small in height for me to ever be able to see without looking directly at her. The blonde I crashed into blinks up at me, her green eyes wide and her blonde curls neat, and I cannot help but think that she looks a little awed at the sight of me.

"Sorry," I raise my hands in surrender, stepping away from her. The last thing I want to do in this town is cause any trouble. And considering that the High Lord apparently has a townhouse here, I certainly do not want to risk causing any so close to his home. Not now that Aurelia is involved. Cauldron boil me, I just want to _know_ her... and starting trouble in her home town is probably not the best way to convince her to let me do that.

The female blinks away her shock, arranging her hair, and then she smiles at me—sheepishly, nervously. "It's alright," she breathes, dusting off her dress. I nod to her and make to keep walking, but I feel her hands on my arm in an attempt to stop me. "Wait! Are you new here?"

I glance across at Hunt; Hunt, who is eyeing the female up and down with his teeth clamped down on his lower lip. I shove him in annoyance.

"Yes," I respond. "I mean—no. Ah, I mean that we'll be—"

"We'll be around for a while, if that's what you were asking," Hunt grins.

The female blinks across at Hunt, her brows raised in confusion, and I get the sense that I have seen her before, that she is familiar, that she is—

"Ellaria," a cool, melodic voice sounds; a voice that sends shivers down my spine, "who are you talking t—"

She doesn't need to finish her sentence. Not when she sees me.

_Oh, no. No. No, this isn't what I wanted, not at all—_

Because Aurelia Oldthorne stands a few metres away from me with naught but fire and vexation in her eyes, at least as soon as she sees me. She wears pink—pink, a colour that hardly seems fitting for her temperament, and she is carrying a basket full of... something. _Something._ Not that it matters when she looks at me like that.

"Is that her?" Hunt whispers to me.

I grit my teeth. "Would anybody _else_ be looking at me with such anger?"

Hunt shrugs. "I don't know which females you've given deadly sexual diseases. I can barely count them myself."

She takes measured steps forward—forward until her fingers wrap around her pretty little sister's arm. "Ellaria," she says through gritted teeth, "we're going now."

Ellaria blinks at her sister. "Why? Do you know them?"

Aurelia's nostrils flare as she keeps staring at me, her eyes piercing. "Unfortunately."

I swallow, taking a step forward, and Aurelia pulls Ellaria away a little too forcefully. I raise my brows as I say, "I just want to talk to you."

Aurelia hisses in annoyance. "I talked to you once before. Look how that ended up. Did you miss me insulting your precious mother that much?"

I growl at her, and beside me, Hunt straightens. He mutters, "Damn. I see you weren't lying about the _mean_ part."

"Shut it, Hunt, or I—"

"Or what? You'll give him twenty lashes?" Aurelia taunts.

Ellaria gapes at her sister. "Aurelia, that's not—"

I jut my head up at the eldest Oldthorne. "No. That's your father, if you remember."

Her eyes widen in outrage, but Ellaria's own widen in hurt—in something akin to shock. I can't help but think that the two of them look so similar and yet so different; Aurelia, with her father's high cheekbones, his long nose, his green eyes ringed with gold; Ellaria, with those same features, only with a softer face. They are both unmistakably the daughters of the High Lord of Spring.

"When will you get the hint?" Aurelia hisses. "I want nothing to do with you."

"We're mates," I bite back at her. "That has to mean _something_ to you."

Ellaria gapes. "Mates? _Mates?_ Aurelia, you didn't—"

"Well done, you idiot," Aurelia growls. She releases Ellaria's arm from her hold only then. "Well _done._ "

"I'm—" _I'm sorry,_ I want to say, but the words don't come out. I don't know what punishment her father will give her simply for being mates with me; I don't know, but what I _do_ know is that I don't want her to be in trouble because of me. "I'm—"

"The mating bond," Aurelia says, her voice wavering, and it is a clear sign that she is trying not to let emotion take over as she says, "is nothing more than a primal call to have children. And I do _not_ want children."

I straighten my shoulders. "Well, good. Neither do I."

She throws her hands into the air with exasperation, begins to walk away, and...

And Cauldron boil me, I make to follow after her. In that moment I do not care whether Hunt and Aurelia's sister follow us or not; I do not care what happens to them. All I care about is getting her to _see,_ to understand—

"Your parents are mated," I call after her, "and my parents are mated. It worked out well for them."

"Illian, please," she begs, coming to a sudden stop as she turns to me, and I'm surprised to see that she closes her eyes—closes them to hide the tears welling within them. "I don't _want_ a mate."

I stay silent. Quiet. I get the feeling that there is more to what she has to say, more to what she begs of me—

"I want to make my own choices," she says, quieter now but still just as deadly, "and make my own decisions. And what if we _were_ mated, hm? What if I accepted the mating bond? I would go and live in your court—your court, where the _worst_ rumours of my father _stem from,_ and be hated there for all eternity. Your parents would _hate_ me, Illian. Did you think about that?"

"I don't care about my parents," I say quietly.

"Then care about mine," she responds. "For me."

I take a breath, averting my gaze, and...

And thankfully, she does not leave. She does not take advantage of the way I look away in order to make her own escape. That is something, at least.

It is the most she's given me so far.

"I know what you mean," I respond quietly.

She glowers at me. "What?"

"I know what you mean because—because everyone sees my mother as this person to be admired, as this saviour, and my father—he is so powerful. And I am expected to live up to that legacy, Aurelia. I do not want it. I want a simple life. I just—Cauldron boil me, I want to be _free_."

She stares at me, her eyes slowly narrowing, and then she folds her arms. "You're... you're just saying that."

I scowl at her. "I find that insulting."

"I find it hard to believe," she responds, jutting her head upward proudly.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Then let me prove to you that I am telling the truth. Cauldron, Aurelia, I am not asking you to run away with me. I just..." I press my lips together. "I want to know you. And not spend the rest of my life wondering."

For the longest time she simply stares at me; stares with those fair brows furrowed, stares with that defiant stance, stares with those piercing, beautiful green eyes—

And then something shifts in her eyes.

And she takes a breath.

And she averts her gaze. 

I wonder just how much of softness lies within; how much she pushes it back with every waking moment.

And then—

"I will give you one hour," she tells me, turning away in the next instant. She begins walking with determination, with haste— "One hour to prove that you're not insufferable."

I blink at her, my shoulders straightening, and then I follow—quickly. "When?"

"Now," she says sharply. 

And despite my shock, despite the excitement that surges within me, I don't hesitate to follow.

This is my chance. And while I have never been very good at impressing females, at impressing _anybody,_ I...

I have to try.

Because I haven't wanted much in my life; not anything of monetary value, at least. Mostly I want paints and a good cloak to last me the winter. But this... Aurelia...

I want to know her. I _need_ to know her.

And despite the fact that I know that this is likely just the mating bond, that this is mostly just an artificial pull which will ensure the strongest offspring, this is...

This is the strongest emotion I have ever felt.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm not like everybody else. Like I don't feel the same way as they do. And it scares me sometimes—terrifies me. Makes me wonder what's wrong with me.

And so I am going to cling to this feeling as hard—and as best—as I can.

Because right now, it feels like the only thing that matters. The only thing that I have left.

Aurelia Oldthorne could be both my salvation and my damnation, and as I follow her wordlessly out of the city, I get the feeling that she knows it.


	4. Aurelia

I regret this as soon as I decide on it.

The way he follows after me, his steps frantic—the way he skips every now and again to keep up with my relentless pace. It's almost comical how much he is trying, and yet it is for that very reason that I am giving him a chance. That and the fact that his words... they convince me to hear him out. I recognise the value in determination as much as I scorn a lack of understanding, and... it is confusing.

I keep walking, silent, even as Illian asks where we're going; even as he sighs and slips his hands into his pockets as I've seen that ridiculous father of his do once before. Looking at him, I wonder how I could ever fall for him. That smirk on his face, those cold blue eyes, the way he looks carved from darkness himself... he sickens me. I am of Spring, and my thorns will not be swathed in darkness.

We eventually come to a stop at a high hill that overlooks Sperover entirely; with the sea to our left and the woods to our right, the city is a sprawling mass of buildings that scream _home._ My mother ingrained in myself and Ellaria very young that the people in this town make up our father's court as much as the courtiers that reside within its palace; I have spent more time here than there, I think. And this place...

This hill is my safe space. With the sea sparkling off in the distance, stretching out and out until it darkens at its depths, it's peaceful—isolated. I will know later whether I regret inviting him here or not.

Illian sits quietly beside me, his wings magicked away by now—just like my own, inherited from my mother. The grass crunches under the weight of the two of us, and for a moment it is oddly peaceful—oddly normal just to sit with him. Until he speaks.

"It's a lovely city," he says quietly.

I clench my jaw. Even his voice drives me insane with irritation, and I have no intention of hearing him speak more than I must. I say, "Earlier, you said you understand. How?"

Illian shrugs. "I don't want to be High Lord. Ever."

I look across at him, my eyes narrowing, and he looks back at me when I ask, "Why?"

He shakes his head, his gaze drifting off to the sea behind me. "Too much responsibility."

I raise my brows. "You don't want to be High Lord because you'd prefer to remain irresponsible?"

He clenches his jaw, his gaze returning to me. "Is it so terrible for me to want an easy life?"

I sneer at him, my upper lip curling in disgust as I turn back to look at Sperover. "Pathetic."

Illian takes a deep breath, and then he exhales. "How long will we keep arguing like this?"

I respond sharply, "For as long as I see fit."

"And what puts you in charge?"

I look back at him. "I am in charge of my own decisions, am I not?"

It's his turn to sneer at me now. "I hold no love for my court. What right do I have to rule over it?"

I roll my eyes, my palm pressing into the grass as I make to stand. "Pathetic again."

"Oh, but things were going so well!" Illian teases from behind me, his voice raised in order to reach me as I start to put distance between us.

I whirl around to look at him; he's standing now, tendrils of darkness curling at his back in a way I know likely means his wings will emerge at any second. I wonder what else he has a lack of control over, too. His temper? Himself? I wouldn't put it past him. Perhaps even my father, as quick-tempered as he is, knows better than the poor excuse for a male before me.

"I can't believe I even gave you the _chance,_ " I growl at him. "Do you even know hardship? What it's like to fight for something?"

He raises his brows, angling himself towards me in a way that screams outrage. "What do you, the spoiled daughter of a High Lord, know of fighting for anything?"

"I've had to fight for my reputation!"

He simply stares at me, and I hope that he knows very well what I mean: that he and his family are the _reason_ that the Oldthorne family is looked down upon. That my mother and father's union is the only reason this court still stands. And Cauldron, how I love them—how, despite my rage, despite my bitterness, I would fight and die for them over and over.

The male before me...

Would he fight for anyone but himself?

There is nothing that connects us. _Nothing._

I wish I could sever the bond for good.

"You make me sick," I hiss at him.

Illian merely slips his hands into his pockets again, the smoke vanishing from his back now. "How charming."

"Smug bastard."

"Spoiled child."

"Come here again, Illian," I say to him, my voice low—threatening, "and I will not hesitate to get my father involved."

He lets out a huff of laughter. "This is between us, Aurelia. Nobody else."

I tilt my head up at him. "It will stay between us if you _leave me alone._ If not, I will be forced to advise my father that the son of the male who took _Feyre Cursebreaker_ from him has been inappropriately pursuing me. And I promise you he will not take it kindly."

His gaze on me narrows. "Your father doesn't scare me."

I smile at him—innocently, deceitfully so. It's a look I learned from my mother. "No, but I bet you're afraid of _your_ father."

The way his expression shifts to one of dread tells me enough.

"Go home, Illian," I tell him. I step away from him, turn around, and then—

I look at him. "And don't come back."

I don't bother to winnow away. I walk away because I want him to _see_ it; I want him to picture the very image of me not caring for him; I want my lack of desire for him ingrained in his brain.

As the son of the Night Court, he has had everything handed to him on a platter. My life has no means be a struggle, but to merely exist... let alone as a female, but as the daughter of a once disgraced High Lord...

I have had to fight. I have been fighting all my life. Whether it's to protect my family or to prove everyone wrong about me, I have always fought. 

And somebody like that does not deserve anybody as battle-weary as me. Not because I'm too scarred for him—no. Because he is _weak;_ because I will not be handed to anybody on a silver platter.

I _am_ the silver platter, cold and hard and unrelenting. And I will never be anything otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little chapter update today, and then we get into the real beef. I may have more frequent updates for this fic as my uh... usual content for ACOSAV is now getting more NSFW. And I AM at work.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> P.S. I really love writing Aurelia's chapters. Her mind fascinates me. Who's your favourite to see POVs from so far?


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